Quand nous disons “en nous”, et quand nous parlons si facilement et si douloureusement de dedans et dehors, nous nommons l’espace, nous disons une visibilité du corps, une géométrie des regards, une orientation des perspectives. Nous parlons d’images… L’autre n’apparaît que, précisément, comme le disparu, celui qui, disparu, ne laisse “en nous” que des images.
Jacques Derrida, Chaque fois unique, la fin du monde, éd. Galilée, 2003. Via.
Left, Vija Celmins, Divided Sky, 2010, Mezzotint on paper, 300 x 210 mm. Via. Right, photograph by Zdzisław Beksiński, Study for the Sadist’s Corset 3, 1957. Via.
Full moon sans werewolf, with clouds.
Poetry leads to the same place as all forms of eroticism — to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death, and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea.
Georges Bataille, from Death and Sensuality, 1962. Via.
Top, photograph by Ute Klein, #8, 2009, from the series Resonanzgeflechte. Via. Bottom, screen capture from Yolanda, directed by George Kuchar, 1981. Via.
Of course, she made me feel all clumsy and awkward. I had the same feeling I did when I had watched an imago emerge, and then to have to kill it. I mean, the beauty confuses you, you don’t know what you want to do anymore, what you should do.
Me, by Fette Sans, October 2012, Downtown Los Angeles, backseat of a convertible belonging to J., the music most likely Wild Nothing, the sun bright with hints of early Los Angeles Autumn, which is Summer in many other places.
Frank Hauschildt and Fette Sans, Du bist Agatha, ich bin Ulrich, 2014, found objects, sound, perfume, dimensions variable. Installation shots (night and morning after) at ainsA, Berlin.
I’ve pulled down my lace and the chintz.
Where are we? In a bedroom, for example. Could it be some other place? Yes. It is up to the viewer to choose. Don’t we ever know what time it is? No, it is either nighttime or daytime. What’s the weather like? It’s a cold summer. Is there anything sentimental about it? No. Anything intellectual? Perhaps. Are there any bit players? They have been eliminated. The word ‘room’ is said, and that ought to be enough to represent a bedroom. Is it a fictitious story? Yes, very much so. Is it mentioned that they are siblings? No. Are there any traces of them? They are barely there. The traces are within the room. Meaning is carried when entering the room. It depends on the viewer to foresee. What else? The destruction of memory. What else? The destruction of judgment. What about the music? It is also a broken memory, playing on repeat.
Top, photograph by Mark Peckmezian, Untitled, 2014. Via. Bottom, screen capture from L’ange, directed by Patrick Bokanowski, 1982. Via.
As she talked she began to disappear. He watched her go; it was amazing. Gloria in her measured way, talked herself out of existence word by word. It was rationality at the service of - well, he thought, at the service of non-being. Her mind had become one great, expert eraser.